Colored
by lostinelysia
Summary: Oneshot. Ron visits Percy's grave and wonders what went wrong. A memory of a prewar Percy floats into his mind.


DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. As if you didn't know that.

A.N.: I made up Percy's middle name. I guess Ron's parents could have used potions to force him to sleep, but remember that they are poor and I have doubts as to whether potions are safe for four-year-olds or not…

I was going to write this story in present tense (it sounds so much better that way) but I started off with past, and was too lazy to go back and change it.

The headstone was bland, grey, blending into the hilly landscape without a hitch. They didn't have enough money to add any extra embellishments, and even if they had, no one would know what to put on there anyway. None of them knew what to say about a person who tried to kill them as they tried to save him. It was pathetic, really. The redhead looked toward the bland, grey sky pretending there were no tears in his eyes. Red hair—that was the only thing that actually had color in Percy's life. But then again, hadn't he tried to dye it brown? Hadn't Percy told him what an ugly color red was?

Ron Weasley looked back at his brother's gravestone and for the hundredth time, wondered what had gone wrong. _Percy Theodore Weasley, August 22, 1976 – May 15, 1998_ read the stone slab. Seventeen years of bloating his ego, two years of domineering over the wizarding world, two years of working for a compromise between Voldemort and Harry Potter, one year of giving it all up and working for a compromise between Voldemort and himself. In the end it was was his own pride that destroyed him. Instead of receiving a high position like Bellatrix Lestrange had in their twisted hierarchy, he found himself doing the unknown, unimportant tasks like fetching supplies and disposing of the bodies of the myriad victims. No doubt he had complained thoroughly, to whom he imagined was a negotiable boss. Ron could only imagine what had happened after that.

None of the other Weasleys except Molly had come to visit. The night she had gotten back, she went upstairs and shut herself inside her room for three days. Mostly, she was silent, and everyone had assumed she was mourning until the second day, when Fred finally noticed there was a silencing charm on her room. She had been sobbing nonstop for the entire time. Far from forgiving, this made the household hate Percy even more. Ron was the only one who hadn't said he would have killed Percy if Voldemort hadn't already done the job.

Again, Ron wondered what went wrong. He remembered a time in his life when things were normal. He was four, a tricky toddler, who could never fall asleep at night until around one in the morning. Arthur and Molly had given up on him after a month of reading, singing, and rocking. Ron lay awake on his back staring up at the Quidditch players zooming across his ceiling. It was twelve thirty and he had no intentions of closing his eyes. Eight-year-old Percy quietly walked into his room and pulled a chair next to Ron's bed. He pulled out a harmonica and blew a soft tune that sounded of ocean waves and the night sky. Ron was asleep in five minutes. The next day, Percy played him another song, and he fell asleep. For a whole week, Percy blew on his harmonica and Ron fell asleep. Then, a Thursday, Fred accidentally broke the harmonica in half, trying to use it to bash one of the garden gnomes in the head. Percy stopped coming and Ron stopped sleeping.

Ron liked to think of Percy as confused and scared at first, but there was no confusion nor fear in his face when he thrust his arm, branded with a serpent in his family's faces one August morning. Be careful on the battlefield, he said, with an uncharacteristic smirk. He had left without a backward glance. Ronald Weasley knew then that his brother had changed and he could do nothing to bring him back.

He looked at the headstone again and wondered if Percy did it because of the lack of color. Of feeling. Of motion. He bit his lip so hard it draws blood. Slowly, Ron wiped the blood on his brother's grave marker and drew a messed up version of a lion. He took the pieces of a harmonica out of his pocket and dropped them onto the dying grass next to the grave.

Seventeen years of bloating his ego, two years of domineering over the wizarding world, two years of working for a compromise between Voldemort and Harry Potter, one year of giving it all up and working for a compromise between Voldemort and himself, and one week of waking up at midnight to play a song for his little brother.

Ron walked away and wondered what went wrong.


End file.
